Johnlock: Return
by LexiInTardisWithSherlockAndCas
Summary: John Watson has been waiting 3 years for his best friend and is looking at lifetime more. Or is he? Rated T just in case.
1. Chapter 1: The Dream

**Chapter 1- The Dream**

I stared at a picture of him in his deerstalker, as I did every night, still praying for my miracle. My memories flash back three years, when I stood at his black headstone. _"Please don't be...dead."_ Those words have forever been seared into the back of my mind and they have become my deepest, most heartfelt wish. "I just want my best friend back," I thought as I remembered Sherlock in his sheet in Buckingham Palace, remembered him in the cab with the ash try. Every day was agony- is agony- without him.

Three years of being without the only one I truly loved, and I looked at a lifetime more. It must be my curse, loneliness. I put his picture down and closed my eyes and dreamed of that magnificent man.

I was standing at his grave site, and on his tombstone lay a single red rose. I kneeled on the ground and whispered, "Come back" to my dead companion. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a flutter of black cloth. Much to my surprise, and anger, Sherlock was kneeling at a grave next to his.

I noticed tears rolling down his face. Sherlock never cried, not for anyone or anything.

"What's the matter, mate?" I asked as I read the gravestone. Shock washed over me as I gasped with disbelief. _No, it couldn't be. It wasn't possible._ It read:

Here Lies John H. Watson

The Best Friend

A Man Could Ever Have

"I did this to you, John. I did this. I should have returned sooner. I should have told you. You need to know, I've always loved you. I should have been there for you. I didn't know you would be so affected by my death. I never meant for any of this to happen. Come back to me, John." Tears ran down his face and splattered onto the cold, hard earth.

"Sherlock, I'm not dead. I'm right here. I'm right beside you! Sherlock!" Couldn't he hear me? Why won't he notice me, he who sees everything, observes everything. "Sherlock!" I tried to push him, knock him over with the full force of my body, but he disappeared. He dissipated into black smoke, whisked away by the wind.

"I'm alive, Sherlock, I'm alive," I whispered hopelessly to the spot where my best friend had been a moment before.

"I'm alive," I stated as I shot up in my bed. The clock on my nightstand read 2:32 AM. "Too early to be awake," I thought. Movement in the shadows caught my eye. A figure standing in the doorway was illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight.

"As am I, John." Sherlock had returned.


	2. Chapter 2: Anger

**Chapter 2: Anger**

"Sherlock! I must still be dreaming, because there is no possible way you could be alive. I felt your pulse, I saw your body. You were bleeding massive amounts of blood out of your skull!" Anger as well as disbelief boiled inside of me and hot tears spilt from my eyes. This couldn't be happening. Sherlock was undeniably, irreversibly dead. Yet here he was, standing in front of me. He's skinnier, if anything has changed about him at all.

"John, it's really me. Honestly, use your eyes. The flat looks empty and hardly used. You still own the place, but you have lodgings else where. In order to afford both, you must have come into some money recently which means you finally accepted help from your sister. You've lost weight; your appetite has been restricted by grief. You're sleeping over at Baker Street, but why? You only stay over on the anniversary of my death, so why today? What's so important about today?"

"It's the anniversary of the day we met. And how do you know about me staying over on the anniversary of your death?" This must be a dream. I need to wake up. "Also, I have someone coming to look at the flat at 2:30. I thought I'd pack up what's left and move it to storage before they came."

"No need. I'll be moving back in."

"Sherlock, I have a client coming. You'll have to find lodgings elsewhere, or make a negotiation with whoever moves in. I'm selling the flat."

"And I'm buying. I'm your client. I arrived at 2:30 to look at the flat and I'm buying my share back. Of course, you'll need to move back in so I can afford the rent."

"Sherlock, I'm not moving back in. The rent is low enough for you to pay for it by yourself because of all the damages you've caused to the place. This has to be a dream. Wake up, John, wake up," I commanded myself, disbelief over a healthy, living Sherlock coursing through my veins.

"It's not a dream, John. Stop saying that it is!"

"It bloody well better be a dream or I'm going to strangle you! How could you fake your death and not tell me about it?" My voice rose as I seethed with anger. "After you left, I fell apart. I struggled for a reason to live. You're a selfish bastard for committing suicide and a real piece of shit for fucking walking in here at 2:30 in the fucking morning, alive and well, expecting everything to be the way they were before you fucked things up! I had to put you, my best friend, six feet underground, watch as everyone lost hope in you, called you a liar and a fraud. I was so done being lonely and receiving everyone's sympathy. And now here you are! Expecting me to be alright and everything to be A-Okay! Well it's not! It's not okay! I loved you and you left me. I died the same day you did."

"My dear Watson, I didn't know you'd be so affected by my death." He sounded so forlorn and lonely himself. I almost felt bad about screaming at him. Almost. "I had to leave, and I couldn't tell you. Moriarty had guns on you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. I jumped to protect you, because I love you. And isn't that what friends do, protect each other? I needed to wait until it was safe for us to reunite." Blood rushed to our cheeks, causing us to blush.

"Sherlock, just promise me one thing. Next time you jump, let me jump with you." With that I walked over to him and kissed him. He was my missing piece and he had returned, and while I had changed and anger continued its way through my veins, I couldn't help myself.

"There won't be a next time. I'm back for good."


	3. Chapter 3: Mysterious Message

**Chapter 3: Mysterious Message**

It's been a little over a week since Sherlock returned; and even though we shared slight intimacy on the night he rose from the dead, I still slept at my lodgings across town. Sherlock stays at Baker Street, and despite my refusal to move back in with him, I still help him pay rent. I have realized I've missed Baker Street more than I originally thought. Much of my free time has been spent with Sherlock, who complains constantly of being bored more than he ever has before.

"Speaking of the devil," I muttered as my cell phone rang. Sure enough, it was Sherlock, right on queue. "What is it now? No, wait, let me deduce this. You're bored!"

"Yes, John, I am. Have you talked to Lestrade yet? The sooner he knows I'm not a rotting corpse the sooner I can get back to work on cases. Then I wouldn't be so bored."

"I tried calling him earlier, but he's out on a case. His secretary said she'd let him know I called as soon as he gets back."

"Don't just wait for him! Call him again! I need to be out working again. I can't just perform experiments all day! It's only noon, and I've performed three already! I need to be out there making deductions."

_Ding dong! _"Sherlock, I'll have to call you back. Someone's at the door. Might be a patient."

"Patient? What do you mean patient?"

"I work at Bart's, Sherlock. The money I came into? That deduction you made? I didn't get the money from Harry. I earned it, with my job."

"There's always something..."

"And it always happens to relate to my sister, apparently. I have to go, Sherlock. I'll call you later." With that, I hung up the phone and answered the door.

A package with a note attached was placed upon the top doorstep. I picked up the oddly shaped package, carried it inside, and read the note.

"Dear Dr. Watson. Sherlock's time was supposed to have run out. Tick tock, now your time is on the clock. Sometimes life can really blow. Yours truly, S. Moran."

"Shit," I said as I unwrapped the package. "A Goddamn motherfucking bomb!" I yelled as I ran, dialing Lestrade as I sprinted. I only had two minutes to get away.

"John, I was just about to call. It sounded important. What's going on?"

"Greg," I panted, "I have a lot to tell you. Can I meet you at the station?" A large explosion knocked me off my feet.

"John! What the bloody hell was that!? Are you all right? I'm arriving at the station now. Stay where you are. Are you home?" I replied with a grunt of approval to his suggested location. "I'm on my way. I'll be there soon."

After Lestrade hung up, I called Sherlock. "My place, quick as you can." I ended the call and waited for the chaos to truly begin.

.:|:.

"What the devil does this Moran mean Sherlock's time was 'supposed to' have run out?" Lestrade had arrived roughly five minutes after the explosion and was now interrogating me, trying to piece together a theory.

"That's what I called to tell you about originally. Sherlock's not actually dead. He faked his death and I still don't know why, but I think this might be a part of it. All I know, he showed up at Baker Street a week ago, and now this. This Moran, he might be after you, too. When he came back, he said something about protecting you, me, and Mrs. Hudson. That we would have been shot or something. I thought this would end with Moriarty out of the question." Frustrated, I ran a hand through my hair. My phone vibrated, alerting me to a text. "Sherlock's here."

"I thought he was dead, and that he had invented Moriarty! I'm going to need a pint or two after this. Where is he? By the way, what happened to the mysterious Moriarty?" Lestrade and I started off for Sherlock, who was hiding in the shadows of a large, neighboring building.

"Sherlock, Lestrade; Lestrade, Sherlock. Thought you might need a reintroduction since you are practically a living corpse."

"John, you can't possibly still be ma-"

"Furious, actually, Sherlock. I forgive you, but I'm furious." I cut him off before he could try to explain how stupid I was for not adjusting by now or something else of the sort. "Now, could you explain what happened to Richard Brook, and more importantly, Moriarty? Also, who is Moran?"

"I fell, yes, but the way I fell and the way I landed affected the way my body took the brunt of the impact. Used a pint of blood to make it look realistic. Moriarty was Richard Brook. It's a play on words. Moriarty murdered himself. I don't know who Moran is, but by the looks of it, he blew up your flat."

"Yes, and he knows you're back; but he didn't try to blow you up. Obviously, he's after me. Clearly a militarily trained man based off the type of explosive he used. Probably released from the military with a dishonorable discharge considering he was consulting with Moriarty."

"You deduced all that, John?" asked Sherlock incredulously.

"I had to prove to myself it wasn't all a lie."

"The fact he proved it was possible is the only reason I'm not arresting you right now. I am sorry for doubting you, Sherlock, but Christ! Faking your own death? You can hardly fathom what we went through. We'll talk about it later. Right, I've got a case to work on. Call me tonight, John, so we can get a pint." Lestrade left us to investigate the crime scene. I turned my full attention to Sherlock and sighed. He seemed slightly taken aback by Lestrade's lack of a friendly reunion.

"Looks like I won't be working on cases for a while longer. John, what did I miss while I was gone?"

"A lot. I'll tell you when we get back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson will be worried sick. I should let her know I'm all right."

The journey back to Baker Street seemed long in the silence. Sherlock, lost in thought, looked confused, hurt, and strained. Sherlock never showed personal emotions when he thought. What had happened to my best friend while he was gone?

.:|:.

Mrs. Hudson fussed over me when we arrived at Baker Street. Sherlock continued his way to the flat while I tried to escape from Mrs. Hudson's doting and coddling.

"I'm fine," I assured her, "I just have a few scrapes and bruises." After another minute, I managed to escape her maternal grasp. Sherlock sat, leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his fingertips pressed together while he stared at the floor. I referred to this as his thinking pose, yet something was off this time. He looked... forlorn.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" I asked, tentatively.

"I've put you in danger, John. None of this would have happened if I hadn't returned, if I had actually died. I made this mess. It's all my fault." He sounded on the verge of tears, and it broke my heart and sent rage through me.

"Sherlock, do you remember when you texted me, all those years back?" I asked, sitting next to him. "You said, you told me, it could be dangerous, yet I came anyways. I decided that day it was fine, it was all fine. When you... When I thought you had offed yourself, I tried to drink myself into oblivion. I tried to join you in death. If you left again, it would truly throw me over the edge." I poured out the truth to Sherlock, trying to help him understand why I need him and just how much, too. "Mycroft had to send me to rehab for alcoholism. Some nights, Lestrade would find me falling down drunk, screaming for you. Hopes and prayers that you were still alive somehow were all that tethered me to this world. Now that you're back, you're not leaving unless I go with you."

"John, the night I came back, you kissed me... Said you loved me. I see that you mean it," he stated as he grasped my hand desperately, " but why do you love me? There are so many out there who could be so much better for you." He turned to stare into my eyes, reading my every thought and emotion that made its way through my head.

"You are the best I could ever ask for and all that I want. When you told me it was all just a magic trick, I thought that included your feelings for me. I know now that they weren't, because you returned to me. I'm in love with you, Sherlock, and I always have been, always will be."

"I'm in love with you, John." He leaved over and kissed me, and we cuddled on the couch until Lestrade called, inviting us for a pint.


End file.
